


Deus Ex Machina

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Reichenbach, Repost from my FFN, Suicidal Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-07
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 09:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3891772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been dead for three years. John can't take it anymore. However, someone (with quite a penchant for cheating death) has a rather different idea in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Yes, Sherlock, It Is What People Do

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this before s3 aired, right when I was getting into fandom. This is my first fic ever written. If I was writing it with the experience I have now, it would be wildly different, but I'm putting it here as it is because I don't feel like reworking it. Also it's a prequel of sorts to another story which I still more or less like. so I'm sorry for anything lil 14-year-old me screwed up, and please don't judge me for that because i have grown. :)

That's it. That's enough. It's ending today.

_Dear Mary,_

_I'm sorry. I love you. Thank you so much for trying to help me through this. You spent so much time with me and cared more than anyone else. I don't want to think about what this will do to you. But lately, it's been too much to deal with. I don't want to leave you, but I miss him more. I just can't function in this world without him._

_Dear Greg,_

_You've been a great friend through all this. I really appreciate all those nights at the bar, just talking and talking. I guess something went wrong with your well-intentioned plan of gradually weaning me off him. It's not your fault._

_Dear Mrs. Hudson,_

_We haven't spoken much since I moved. But thank you for being there when I was still at 221B._

_Dear Molly,_

_I haven't talked to you either. I suppose you're avoiding me. I can't say I'm not a little bitter about that. You were a good friend when he w - before._

_Dear Mycroft,_

_I hate you. You are a traitor to your family and I wish I never knew you. I wish he never knew you._

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I never got the chance to tell you this before, so I'll say it now. I only sorted out my feelings properly the night we ran through London, handcuffed together, jumping fences, on the run from the police. You looked at me, and you were so vulnerable, like I was the only person on Earth who could protect you from everyone you thought was a friend. I suppose this is true. (I miss you I need you Sherlock come back Sherlock Sherlock I can't do it Sherlock I need you please please for me just for me SHERLOCK SHERLOCK SHERLOCK)_

_I love you, Sherlock Holmes, more than anything else, ever, I would follow you anywhere, to the end of the world and beyond, I would follow you off the rooftop, three years ago, if I could._

_I'll see you again soon, love._

_\- JW_


	2. The Roof

_Falling._

_Always, always falling._

_Falling, and then, the crack, that sickening crack that resonates through the galaxy and rips John Watson's world apart, completely, irrevocably._

_Funny how one sound can end, effectively, two lives._

_"SHERLOCK!"_

"SHERLOCK!"

John's eyes snap open. Sobs wrack his body as Sherlock's final moments replay in front of his eyes for the 1095th time in perfect clarity. He buries his face in Sherlock's pillow, gasping, attempting in vain to pull some remnant of the detective's scent from the fabric. There's no trace of the strange mix of mint, cologne and disinfectant that used to hang about in a not-at-all-unpleasant cloud. The numb scent of salt has overwhelmed it.

Nobody had fully grasped how very dependent he had been on Sherlock, before. He didn't really have any other friends, and no girlfriend that lasted more than three weeks. Granted, the reason for that was usually Sherlock, but it was disturbing the amount of rampant cheaters (and worse) he had narrowly escaped in the period he'd been living with Sherlock. It really irked him – was there something about him that made him seem like an easy mark? He'd been reluctant to date for the first year. Did he really need Sherlock holding his hand whenever he met someone, discreetly (or sometimes not so much) whispering "addict, alcoholic, cheater" in his ear?

(Yes.)

Then he met Mary.

She was sitting in the waiting room when he stormed out of his therapist's office for the hundredth time and, humiliatingly, burst into tears in the lobby. The other patients glanced at each other awkwardly, trading "You go calm him down, I'm certainly not" looks. Except her.

She, who evidently was being treated for severe claustrophobia, strode right over, kneeled beside him, and held him until his sobbing subsided. After he had cooled down, and after her appointment, he had shyly apologized for his loss of composure. She invited him to dinner.

They had been dating for seven months. He loved her. And then suddenly, she didn't love him back. There had been a row to rival those he had had with Sherlock, the ones that ended with him slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the hinges on the way to the pub, coming back hours later, hammered, to find Sherlock sulking obstinately on the couch.

She hasn't spoken to him for five months. He doesn't really recall what the fight was about, it was just a blur of anger and pain and desolation. He has come to terms with the breakup enough to understand what Mary had done for him in the time they were together, but not enough for the spear of white-hot agony to cease stabbing him incessantly in the stomach.

For the past five months, John has fallen into a never-ending spiral of depression. He rarely leaves the flat. He refuses to socialize or do anything with anybody. It is as if he is angry at the world, furious, for stealing his love, his life, his –

_Sherlock._ Most of all he misses Sherlock. John has known, for a year or so, that his feelings for Sherlock had been – and still are – far beyond platonic. He needs him, more than romantically, he physically needs Sherlock. And he has a feeling that had the roles been reversed, Sherlock would feel the same.

It's been two years since John sat at Sherlock's grave and cried for one more miracle. He has long since stopped believing in miracles of any kind. There is one, and only one, way he will ever see Sherlock again.

_Two years._

That's it. That's enough. He can't take it anymore. It's ending today.

He lifts the worn, creased, much-edited note from beside the bed, a feeling of determination he hasn't experienced in a long time set in his shoulders.

They don't take notice of him as he limps his way through the hospital. Or, at least, they like to pretend he doesn't see them take notice, but he has picked up a few tricks from Sherlock in the observation department. Faces flicker just a shade too quickly away, eyes glance down, heads jerk away from each other. _No, we weren't gossiping about this strange, broken man_ (he has long since passed the pity phase), _the psychopath's friend, the delusional one, who thinks he was real, no, not us._

Molly's not here. Thank goodness, he really did not feel like dealing with her, today especially. He does feel a twinge of remorse at leaving her without even saying goodbye…Just a twinge. Sherlock is waiting.

John heads towards the stairwell, leaning heavily on the cane he became reliant on again exactly three days after Sherlock. He's going to take the stairs. The elevator seems improper for this occasion.

It takes John a ridiculously long time to struggle up the steps. Despite his leg's constant throbbing, he is enveloped in a numbing haze of peace. The hard part was making up his mind about it; now that he's decided, it's so much easier. He gives a small chuckle that quickly turns into a whimper, and then the tears start, constant and unceasing. John hiccups quietly and reaches into his pocket.

The ex-doctor, ex-blogger fingers the paper, and it gives him strength.

Twenty minutes later, he arrives on the roof, panting, stumbling, tears streaking his face and jumper. He throws his cane down – he will walk on his own to the edge, he can.

One step.

You can do it, John.

Sherlock's waiting.

Another step.

For Sherlock.

You believe.

Ten steps to go.

Soon you'll be with him.

Eight.

What will his face be like, when he sees you?

Do you believe in an afterlife?

Silly question. He's waiting, after all.

Six.

He has to be.

Five.

_I'm coming, Sherlock._

Four.

_I love you._

Two.

John stops.

_He can't do it._

His soldierly stoicism crashes around his ears.

John Watson falls to his knees, just beside The Ledge, and crumples into himself, curling into a trembling, pathetic ball, crushing his hands into his face. Every muscle in his body tenses and shudders as he gasps brokenly, shoving his sleeve into his mouth as a futile effort to stop the whimpering sobs that rip from his throat. John grinds his forehead into his palms, eyes crunched closed and tears pouring unrelentingly over his mouth and face and soaking his already-damp jumper.

_He can't do it._ He can't do the one thing that will enable him to see the love of his life again. The _one thing…_

Very gradually, the shaking and whimpering cease, fading to sobs, to snuffles, to jagged breathing. John experiences the silent calm that only comes after a good cry, and with it comes a realization.

He is a soldier, despite his recent loss of composure, and he has a soldier's courage.

John Watson steps onto the edge.

He looks down, at the myriad of tiny people going about their tiny lives down below. This must be what Sherlock saw in his final moments. Then again, didn't Sherlock always view people as tiny? Tiny size, tiny minds. He smirks slightly. That was Sherlock.

John lifts his arms, stretched out like he's flying, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes.

_Three._

_Two._

_One._

He's falling.

_Always falling._

There's a few seconds of blissful silence, like there always is before the _crack,_ then –

_Vwoorp vwooorp vwoooooooorp_ – what is that _noise?!_ He's never heard anything like it! There's a blue – blue box, sort of thing, in the air, then something grabs his shirt and pulls him bodily into the box, which is _actually flying,_ he's not falling anymore, he's lying on the floor of – well, it can't be the _box!_ Obviously not, but it's _something,_ and whatever it is is rocking and twisting wildly – there's a few seconds of chaos and noise, then a strange, floppy-haired man with a bowtie is leaning over him, grinning and nearly stabbing him with that impossible chin.

"Now, John Watson, we can't have that, can we? Oh no, not suicide, worst idea since the Chicken Dance – or did that not come first? I'm the Doctor, by the way, welcome to the TARDIS!"

John has time to stare bemusedly at the Doctor for a few seconds before fuzziness starts to overwhelm him and his vision goes black.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing John Watson notices, before he even opens his eyes, is that he is alive. The pounding in his head, and a distinct corporeality about him, evidences this. It raises a vortex of conflicting emotions that John promptly shuts into a dark corner of his mind to be dealt with later, a technique invaluable to him in the war.

The second thing he notices is that he is in a bed. A real, legitimate bed.

He's not sure what exactly he was expecting after being pulled into the box and – he supposes – fainting, but he is fairly certain that a bed isn't it.

Among other, more pressing emotions, like shock, bewilderment, and panic, John had experienced a vague "oh-dear-I'm-being-kidnapped-again" feeling when he landed in the box, because that is what usually happens when he doesn't know what's going on in this way. It was an occupational hazard of being an acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes.

However, he is fairly sure that kidnappers do not put their hostages in a (surprisingly comfortable) bed. Or tuck them in. Snugly.

John opens his eyes.

"Hello, you're awake!" says the odd floppy-haired man, perched in an egg-shaped chair suspended from the ceiling. He's evidently been waiting by John's bedside for a while. "Well, I knew you were awake when your breathing changed, but that's beside the point." The chair sways as he leans forward, grinning. "I'm the Doctor, hello, and you've got questions, of course. Everyone does. Fire away!"

There's a few seconds of silence as John attempts to marshal his thoughts. He's probably never been more confused in his life, but he settles on the most important question buzzing around amidst the muddled swarm of panic that is his mind.

"Where are we?"

"That's usually the first one. It's called the TARDIS. Time and Relative Dimensions in Space. You weren't quite conscious enough for the traditional observation, so I'll help you– it's bigger on the inside."

"…Bigger on the –"

"Yes, bigger on the inside! Diii _men_ sssionally trrranssscen _dent_ allll." The Doctor draws out the words like he's savoring their flavor on his tongue. "Also a spaceship. And, er, timeship."

"So – that box, that blue box – "

"Yup. That was her."

_"Her?"_

The Doctor smiles. "She's my ship. Not technically mine, I suppose, but she was so restless, just sitting in that museum. Nobody was going to miss her much. We had a lot in common. So I stole her, and she stole me." He leans back, an expression of mild surprise on his face. "I don't usually tell people that. I guess you've just got a trustable face."

John pauses to consider this for a minute. He is reminded unwillingly of Sherlock, how he had said privately to John, on one occasion, that he was the only one he really trusted and talked to.

He sits up and unconsciously steeples his fingers like Sherlock. "Why?"

"You jumped off a building."

"Lots of –" John swallows. "Lots of people jump off buildings."

The Doctor leans forward and puts a comforting hand on John's shoulder. "I know. And believe me, John Watson, I am so, so sorry. I can't tell you why, yet. But soon, all right? Hang in there."

"It's not all right, actually."

"I know."

They sit silently for a while. John's eyes are closed, his brow furrowed as a multitude of emotions all struggle to make themselves heard. His mysterious companion's hand remains on his shoulder, radiating waves of sympathy and solace.

Finally John looks up. The Doctor offers him a small, reassuring smile. "Shall I give you the grand tour?"

As they meander through the TARDIS, the Doctor making slightly alarming comments such as "I was wondering where the snake zoo had gotten to" and "here's the bigger pool, that had better not be a – oh yes, it's a shark fin, moving right along," John notices his limp is gone for the first time in three years. He feels oddly wary of it. Has his subconscious decided that this strange, slightly mad man he has only just met is a sort of replacement for Sherlock? _His_ Sherlock? John pushes thoughts of how alike the two are out of his head. _No, Sherlock was my friend. I don't know this man._

"What's in here?" John asks as they pass a semi-open door, leading into a room lined with shelves.

"Hm?" The Doctor, already a few meters ahead, spins on his heel.

John pushes the door open. The shelves are packed with odd memorabilia – cardboard models of the TARDIS, an umbrella, a crown, eyeglasses. There's a small wooden cot with strange circular designs in the corner.

"Oh," says the Doctor, his bouncy façade dropping. "This is my… Companions Room, I guess you could say. It's where I remember those who've come before."

John picks up an old sepia photograph depicting a smiling woman and tiny baby. "So there are others? Just people you've randomly picked up in your travels?"

"Sometimes we're thrown together by fate. Sometimes they just need someone in their life. Sometimes they save me, or I save them. I show them my lifestyle…Some run and never look back. But some fall in love, and for a while, we run side by side."

"Where are they now?"

"Oh, John…I haven't showed you yet, but I've got a very dangerous life. Aliens and explosions and other dimensions, all the time. Some I can never see again. Some forget all about me. Some get sick of it all and leave. And some – yes, some die. But I promise you, John Watson, I will do absolutely everything in my power to protect you."

John looks up. This is the most serious he's ever seen the Doctor. He's got the most earnest expression, and his eyes betray a terrible sadness deep inside.

"Alright," he nods.

The Doctor's familiar easy grins slides over his face, and the sorrow disappear from his eyes as if it was never there. It occurs to John that the Doctor hasn't ceased to care, he is merely prodigious at the same shutting-away-emotions technique John is clinging to. "Would you like to finish the tour?"

"Let's go." John shuts the door on his way out, but thoughts of the past companions linger in his mind.

"Library, other pool, yes they're connected, don't ask because I don't know the answer, and last but not least the _console r_ – oh." The Doctor bounds down the stairs to attend to the ringing phone as John's mouth hangs open in awe.

As soon as the Doctor picks up the phone, it ceases to ring and a video begins to play on one of the screens around the main console. It shows a brash blonde woman standing on what looks like a ledge of some sort, speaking into a wrist-mounted camera.

"Hello, sweetie. I've run into a spot of trouble with some Draconians and could use a pickup."

"Oh, no, River, not now, River this is the worst idea – " The Doctor is running frantically around the console, pulling levers and pressing buttons seemingly at random, occasionally pausing to stare at the screen.

"I'm sending you the spacetime coordinates now." A string of numbers and letters pops up on the screen. The TARDIS begins to make an alarming grinding noise. Something explodes mildly. The Doctor runs his hands through his hair, a panicked expression on his face.

"Er – Doctor?" asks John, shouting to be heard. "Can I – can I help at all?"

"River, why did it have to be _today_ of all days – What? Oh, no, it's fine, just routine –"

"One more thing, sweetie. It's been one and a half months exactly since the event we discussed," adds the woman on the screen. She smiles slightly –

"John! Quickly, you need to come over here!"

There's a trace of Sherlock in his commanding tone, the kind he only used when it was of Utmost Importance. John rushes to side of the console out of view of the screen, where the Doctor is trying and failing to pull a lever with his foot. John seizes the offending lever and yanks it, to no effect. Something else explodes and there is an incongruous smell of bananas.

"Right! Thank you, John, gigantic help," says the Doctor, whacking at the console with a rubber mallet. "That should fix it – there she goes." The TARDIS steadies out and gives a final, satisfied vwoop vwoooooop noise.

John stumbles to the other side of the console, where the Doctor is checking the screen. "What exactly just happened?"

"Oh. Ah," a flustered Doctor surreptitiously turns the screen away from John, "that was, I, you see – "

Suddenly the TARDIS doors slam open and the same woman from the video message careens into the room, arms outstretched and hair flying. The Doctor rushes up and catches her, and she rights herself swiftly, leaning into him. "Hello, sweetie. Did we agree to meet in the right order last time we talked – a month and a half ago, for me?"

"Yeah. You really shouldn't be running around so much, River, not in your…state."

River laughs quietly and places a protective hand on her stomach. " _Pregnancy, dear._ It's all right to say it."

A small error message pops into the forefront of John's brain. _We're sorry, John Watson has experienced too much he doesn't understand and needs to close. Apologies for any inconvenience._ He stares.

"Well, in a few months, you won't be able to do much running at all. You'll have to settle down with me in the TARDIS. Imagine, River Song sedentary!"

River leans forward and kisses the Doctor gently on the mouth. "The operative phrase being 'in a few months.' Also, I hardly think the TARDIS counts as sedentary." She pulls away and notices John. "Who's this? Another one you've stolen from the universe at large?"

"You could say that, River, this is John – "

River suddenly winces. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Doctor. Do you think you could introduce us after I change? Draconian clothes itch like you wouldn't believe. I suppose because they have scales and can't feel it."

"Alright." The Doctor smiles slightly and River turns to head up the stairs. "Oh, and one more thing, sweetie!" she adds over her shoulder before disappearing into the TARDIS. "Thanks for always being there to catch me when I fall!"

_Catch._

_Me._

_When._

_I._

_Fall._

Five simple words wrench into John's mind like the TARDIS wrenched into his life and Sherlock wrenched out, swirling around and around while his brain begins to connect things he really doesn't want it to connect. River's hair and dress had been blown sideways – like she had been falling instead of running toward the TARDIS. She had been on a ledge in the video. The Doctor's initial panic and reluctance to let John see the screen, the arbitrary lever conveniently _just out of sight_ of the picture, all make sense now! He, who knows so much about John, somehow before actually knowing him at all, wanted to prevent him from seeing the TARDIS catch River, just like it caught John and _DIDN'T CATCH SHERLOCK._

The blindingly furious thought pounds into John's brain, obliterating any other rational idea and crushing the painstakingly constructed barrier around his barely suppressed feelings, and he is completely overcome by raw emotion.

Animalistic relief at being _not dead_ wars with soldierly disgust for said relief and (irrationally, he knows, it wasn't his fault the Doctor swooped out of the sky like that) for his _cowardice_ in not being able to complete the jump. He's angry at himself, at Sherlock, the Doctor, the world in general, wherever the Doctor comes from, and a fresh surge of grief for his sociopathic genius sweeps in as well. But these emotions are drowned as the greatest sensation washes over him, a devastating wave of –

 _Disappointment._ Most of all, John is overcome with a sense of crushing despondency that it failed, he didn't go through with it, and now he'll never see Sherlock ever again, because something in him knows that he will never, ever work up the courage to attempt to end his own life again. Overwhelmed by this thought, John gives a jagged sob and falls to his knees.

The Doctor, hearing this, peeks around the console. "John? John, are you okay – "

At the sound of that voice, John's spinning mental vortex, all the fear and grief and self-loathing and anguish and searing disappointment, coalesces into a single point of white-hot fury targeted at the Doctor, his smugness and stupid bowtie and unwavering bounciness and his miraculous, unfair deus ex machina of a box – and John snaps.

 _"Did you not THINK,"_ he shouts, suddenly on his feet, fists balled by his sides, _"did you never THINK,_ just even once, that I knew _EXACTLY_ what I was doing on that roof?!"Tears course down his face; he makes no effort to wipe them away. "Did you even _consider_ that maybe, just maybe I _wanted_ it to be over, and that _maybe you SHOULDN'T HAVE CAUGHT ME?!"_

The Doctor isn't taken aback or shocked like John expected, but is calmly watching him in a way that makes John want to punch the studiously neutral expression off his face. Instead he settles for screaming, "Did it never occur to you that I've been working up the courage to get up to that roof for almost two years?! I can't live without him, I'm a shell, a zombie, and here you are with your box that could save him, so _why can't you?! Why let him fall – AND NOT ME?!"_

Exhausted by his outpouring of rage and despair, John sinks back to the floor, sobbing quietly into his hands. "Please," he says, barely audible. "Please."

"John, I'm sorry. I've never stopped saying this, and I never will, but I'm so, so sorry."

John looks back up, a spark of anger rekindling. "This isn't okay, you know? What you do, just stealing people, ordinary people from their ordinary lives, and then they never come back. No," he puts up a hand to still the Doctor's protests, "they return, you said some of them do, but they're not the same. They are in no way the same. You're a thief, nothing but a – a thief of life."

The Doctor leans forward, and the age-old sorrow is back in his eyes. "I won't deny that I am a thief, it's all I am and ever will be. But, John, there is _nothing_ – all of time and space, nothing that angers, and, well, terrifies me more than a person willing to steal their _own_ life. All those moments, that laughter, that love, that adventure, all yours, snatched away in one cataclysmic thievery. It petrifies me. And you may hate me for this, you certainly won't be the first, but we can't go back and save Sherlock. It's called a fixed point in time. I may be able to dash about through time as I will, but if I meddle with one of these the universe will implode."

John's face turns emotionless as his Pandora's box of hope shatters into fragments, leaving him hollow and empty-eyed. He nods tightly.

After a moment's silence, in which the Doctor's eyes flit around and he chew on his lip like he's arguing with himself, the strange man speaks. "I can tell you one thing. I really shouldn't, it breaks too many rules, but I think you deserve to know. Sherlock jumped off that roof to save you. Moriarty had a sniper trained on you, who would have killed you if Sherlock didn't fall. Sherlock had a choice, John – he could win his and Moriarty's colossal, macabre game, or he could save your life. Head over heart. You know who he chose."

John rocks back on his heels, staring at the Doctor. His words tumble around in his head, turning everything he had known in the past two years upside down.

"So…he – for me?"

The Doctor smiles gently. "For you. Always for you."

The former Army doctor runs his hands over his face. "I don't…"

"I know. Now, this is usually the part where I offer to drop you off back in London, let you live a nice, normal life and forget about me, go back to sitting at home, mindlessly watching telly, fending off sympathy and snide remarks in equal measure, sleeping in Sherlock's room and having nightmares every night – or, you know, you could come with me."

"I could – _what?"_

Suddenly River appears at the top of the stairs. "We've still got to sort out that Draconian queen's assassination business, you know, they think I did it – oh, I'm sorry, is this a good time?"

"One minute, River," the Doctor calls up to her, then turns back to John. "So. What'll it be?"

"Alright…can we go back to 221B first, right quick? I want to get the scarf."

"Of course! Time machine, those Draconians can wait for your scarf."

John's face breaks into a tentative smile. "Let's go."

The Doctor laughs out loud and spins to the console, pulling levers, joined quickly by River and John. The engines begin to _vwoooorp,_ filling the TARDIS with the sound of thieves, the sound of adventure, the sound of hope, the sound of change.

The sound of life.


	4. The Roof (Reprise)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *is still quite proud of my Moran*

Half an hour. Half an hour, give or take, of this empty existence, driven by fear and pain and vengeance. Then it'll be over.

Sherlock gives a strangled half-laugh, half-sob and wipes at his face with a grimy hand. Half an hour, then he'll see John.

He allows himself rare periods of emotion like this whenever he knows for a fact he's completely alone, in his small, dingy flat after the world's gone to bed or on a stakeout hunting some member of the Web. These secret, often tearful moments are the only way to maintain the cold-blooded, robotic exterior he clings to elsewhere like a life raft. His necessary impassiveness has reached the point where Mycroft and Molly are worried for his mental health. He didn't even blink when Mycroft informed him of John's fragmenting emotional state.

_John._ Sherlock feels another pang of guilt and sorrow for abandoning John like he had and subjecting him to such emotional torture to drive him to depression. _Hold on, John, I'm coming…_

Suddenly Sherlock wishes Moran would hurry up and return to the flat where he's been staying, across the street from a conveniently deserted office block. Logically, he knows the probability of John doing something stupid in the next half-hour ( _less, now_ ) is small to begin with, and barely affected by however long it takes for Moran to return. But this is a time set aside for emotion, not logic. Sherlock fidgets and hopes.

To pass the time, he checks and double-checks the advanced sniper rifle set up facing the window. Crosshairs are go. It's steady on its little tripod. All parts are properly oiled and assembled. Sherlock smirks. How fitting that the last member of the Web, John's personal sniper, should meet his demise in the same fashion Moriarty had threatened his John with.

Sherlock glances out to Moran's flat, _isn't he back yet?_ , like a child impatient for his turn at a game. And – there! A silhouette at the window! Sherlock's heart leaps, _the end is in sight!_ and places his eye to the sights and his finger on the trigger. He takes a moment to shut out all emotion, like he always does in the seconds before cutting another strand of the Web away, and fires.

_BANG._ A tiny torpedo of instant death rockets across the street and into the head of the figure at the window. A small, splattery explosion and the Web is gone.

Sherlock leaps up, grinning, and twirls giddily once before rushing down the stairs and out into the street. People have heard the gunshot, naturally, and are calling the police, but Mycroft can smooth it over easily. Moran's _dead!_ He's _dead!_ Sherlock's two-year hiatus is _over!_ Of course, he needs to check the body. One can't be too careful, especially in matters of such importance, but none of Moriarty's other snipers had seen anything coming, they'd had almost nothing in terms of security, no ways to cheat death, he'd made sure himself, and why should Moran be different, and _he's going to see John!_ Soon he'll have verified the body's identity _(idiot John, that's the step you forgot)_ , checked its pulse and he'll be done. He'll demand a car of his brother (interesting how the man he'd once called his archenemy is now working with him to take down his _true_ nemesis) and then he'll be on the way home. Which, of course, means John. He can't stop thinking his name. John, John, John.

Sherlock pounds across the street, hardly caring who takes notice, and slams through the doors of the run-down apartment building. He rockets up the stairwell to the second floor, quickly locates room 206, and wastes no time in kicking the door down. Sherlock rushes into the room – and stops dead in his tracks.

His brain takes a moment to process the thing on the floor in front of him. _No – this can't be happening. Not when I'm so close!_

But it is. Sherlock stares at the crude but accurate dummy on the ground, surrounded by what looks like scarlet ink. To add insult to injury, someone – Moran – has scrawled _John Watson_ across the figure's forehead, Sherlock's bullet hole straight through the first _n_. His heart jolts with the inescapable certainty that he's made an awful mistake, he's been too careless and now he's going to pay for it, probably with his life.

Poor Sherlock's nightmare worsens as he hears the door shut quietly behind him, followed by the sound of a gun cocking. Slowly, carefully, Sherlock places his hands on his head and turns around to face the notorious, dishonorably discharged Colonel Sebastian Moran.

Moran is tall, but not as tall as Sherlock, and leanly muscled with a thatch of light strawberry-blond hair. He's barefoot, which explains why Sherlock hadn't heard him coming in. He wears a feral grin and has a rather large gun leveled at Sherlock's head.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, I presume," says Sherlock evenly.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Moran's voice has a relaxed, almost cocky tone to it. "So nice to finally m – "

_BANG_. Moran fires in the middle of the word. Sherlock sees it coming, of course, he really expected no less from someone who could outwit him thus far. He drops to the floor as soon as Moran fires and scrambles past him to the door, hooking an arm around his legs and tripping him on the way out. Moran swears fervently, and there's a nasty snap as he falls heavily onto his wrist. He gasps in pain, and Sherlock's on the move, racing desperately toward the stairwell at the other end of the hall. He'll run through the lobby and out into the street, Moran ( _probably_ ) won't shoot at him in public, he'll be able to escape in one of Mycroft's cars and form another plan. Sherlock turns into the stairwell – and nearly plunges to his death. Flimsy caution tape is strung across a lethal gap in the floor, ringed with jagged pieces of rotting wood and the sad remnants of decrepit bannisters.

_The stairs are out._

Sherlock spins around, panicked, and sees Moran pounding down the hallway, a violent snarl twisting his features. He shoots wildly a few times, _his aim must be affected by the broken wrist, I can't get past him, have to go –_

Sherlock turns and sprints up the first flight of stairs. Moran's at the bottom now, and Sherlock barely manages to round the corner before he shoots again. The bullets ping harmlessly into the walls. Moran swears again.

The sniper is close enough behind Sherlock that he can't enter one of the other floors, Moran would be upon him before he was able to open the door. He can't do anything but race feverishly upward, flight after flight, ignoring the incessant sensation of getting higher and higher with nowhere safe to end this chase. No time for planning, no time for thought, because Moran's broken wrist hasn't stopped his being able to run. Or shoot, if he has a close enough target, which Sherlock _will be_ if he slows down for even a fraction of a second. More bullets blaze into the wall and ceiling where Sherlock was a moment before. One nicks his coat. Panting, nearly sobbing, he turns up another endless staircase and hurtles out an open door.

The cold air hits him with a snap, along with the realization that _he is on the roof_. Oh God, _the roof_. His stomach jolts with sickening panic and he shudders uncontrollably. _Not the roof, no, no, not the roof…_ The cold cement floor, the wind blowing bitterly across his face, the lack of horizon and the _vertigo_ all are _exactly_ (no not exactly don't be and idiot Holmes) like the Roof two years ago. He can almost see Moriarty perched on the edge, _staying alive the final problem richard brook you're insane John side of the angels BANG no no John it's all true my note Goodbye John SHERLOCK –_

NO. This is not the time to be having a panic attack. Sherlock ducks behind the small shed that houses the end of the stairwell and pulls out the gun he didn't have time to get to before. Everything's been happening too quickly, and he thanks God for whatever reason Moran hasn't caught up and shot him in his few seconds of weakness.

Sherlock readies the gun and aims it at Moran's chest level, just before Moran bursts onto the roof, a triumphant grin on his face. His head whips around at the sound of Sherlock's gun cocking, and he fires directly into Sherlock's hand. Sherlock's shot goes wide, hitting Moran's gun hand in a bizarre twist of fate and the men both drop their weapons, the guns skittering in opposite directions across the roof.

After the initial flash of pain, Sherlock ceases to be able to feel his fingers – never a good sign; probably some nerves have been severed. He's bleeding enough that he expects the bullet's hit the radial artery as well. Internally cursing at being forced to fight left-handed, Sherlock draws a knife from an inside pocket and turns to face Moran, who has also produced an (admittedly much larger) blade. _Interesting. Doesn't have another gun on his person? Wants to toy with me?_ Sherlock isn't complaining. Statistically, he's much more likely to survive a knife-to-knife fight than a gunfight with no gun.

Moran lunges at him, slashing, and Sherlock steps deftly aside, attempting to throw him off balance but not really expecting it to work. It doesn't. Moran turns smoothly, still grinning. That's beginning to unnerve Sherlock. They fight, punching and slashing and kicking and stabbing furiously, for an eternity at least. Sherlock is beyond exhausted and frankly wants to go home. He feints left and stabs, but Moran whirls around him and gives him a shove from behind. Sherlock stumbles but quickly recovers, gasping and clutching his injured hand to his chest as if he's jolted it. Moran smirks and stealthily approaches Sherlock from behind, knife out and ready to slide under his ribs. At the last second, Sherlock turns and slams Moran into the wall of the shed, pressing the knife hidden in his hand to the colonel's throat. Moran drops his blade in shock, nearly hitting Sherlock's toe.

They're both breathing hard, adrenaline surging in their veins and sweat shining on their foreheads despite the cold. Sherlock's ebony curls are plastered to his skull. His face is bleeding in several places, including his nose, which is probably broken, and he's cracked at least four ribs. Moran has two black eyes, a possible fractured radius, and at least three less teeth than when he entered this fight. He lifts his face, stares at Sherlock with that ragged grin, and says clearly, "Your pet's dead, you know."

_Blank._

A split second of total sensory oblivion, feeling seeing hearing nothing, before reality snaps back into being and Sherlock rocks back on his heels, drawing in a breath and staring at Moran with wide eyes. The sniper's smile broadens with the knowledge that he has Sherlock exactly where he wants him. "Jim texted me in the stairway. Finally suicided! Jumped off a roof, from what I hear."

Sherlock's eyes flicker frantically across Moran's face, searching desperately for some evidence that he's lying, because no matter how good a liar he is, however practiced, there will be a tell, something that gives it away, there _must be_ …but there's nothing. He's telling the truth.

"Want to know something funny? It was the _exact same roof_." Moran snickers, smirking. "His skull cracked and bled over the same paving stones as yours."

_John's gone._

Sherlock takes a deep breath, trying not to sob, barely caring when Moran shimmies out of his grasp and retrieves the knife. "That's kind of…sentimental, don't you think?" the assassin sneers.

_no_

There are not, have never been, and will never be words to describe Sherlock's screaming fury as he launches himself at Moran, slashing and stabbing out blindly, forcing him – _somewhere, just somewhere that needs to be away and not here, and HE SHOULD FALL LET HIM FALL_ and they're at the edge of the roof. But then they're not, because Moran's manipulated the fight so they're headed somewhere else. Sherlock doesn't really care; all that matters is to cause Sebastian Moran as much pain as possible. His senses and reflexes are horrifyingly heightened; he can see every move Moran will make before he makes it and knows exactly where his next blow will land – Moran's face, _slash_ , arm, _slash_ , stomach, _stab_. Sherlock's knife slides into the sniper's abdomen, spurting blood, but he keeps fighting, gasping and panting nonetheless. _Tenacious_ , notes a tiny rational part of his mind that has been cowering in a corner. Sebastian is stumbling now, probably bleeding to death, but he still manages to pursue Sherlock – and then suddenly, Sherlock can't back away anymore. Why? Oh, they've reached the end of the roof. Moran is half pressing his knife into, half leaning on Sherlock. "Why…are you fighting?" he rasps. "He's…dead. Won't…change that."

And with that, Sherlock snaps back into himself. _John's dead, the last two years have been in vain and what does he have to live for? Who would he return to London for? What would he do, just slip back into crime solving? With no foil, nobody to tell him when he's breaking all the rules of polite society and still love him for what he is?_ And the only person who's ever been anything like that is…just a few steps away, a few steps backwards…There's only one logical thing to do in this situation. Sherlock disentangles himself from the dying assassin, none too gently, and hops onto the ledge. It is rather similar to the previous Roof. His bloodstained scarf and tattered coat billow and snap in the wind, as he spreads his arms out as if he's flying and leans backward. _Hold on, John, I'm coming._

Sherlock Holmes falls for the last time with a smile on his face.


	5. The Nullification of the Fifth Stage

Xanth holds up a hand in front of his face. He can barely see it. That won't do. He closes his eyes (not that it makes much difference) and concentrates. Soon a suffusion of glowing, ethereal white-gold light seeps from the offending hand and into the room around him. He smiles weakly. Always nice to have some companionship. And if companionship means Solie's decided to be glowy, all the better.

The boy frowns as he observes what Solie's illuminated. The sunspirit's light glimmers delicately over a derelict, dirty room. A couple mice are squeaking vapidly in a puffball nest in one corner, and water drops from the ceiling form a mesmerizing pattern of taps on the floor in front of him. Also he has to pee.

Xanth decides that now he's found the strength to contact Solie, he should probably investigate his injuries under the light. He's in pain rather. There's something wrong with his arm. He glances at it – weird angle. Likely broken, then. Lovely. Most of the rest of him hurts as well. What were those thugs trying to do – beat the sunspirit out of him? Idiots. He supposes they didn't know what else to do. Though scary, the Overlord knows next to nothing about sunspirits. Also, he may be being used for blackmail. For the entire planet. His stomach growls for the thousand-and-first time. The situation just keeps getting better and better.

Suddenly a fissure of creamy fluorescent-blue light cuts through the relative gloom. Xanth hurriedly hushes Solie as the door is flung open by a man with sandy-blond hair and a deep blue scarf. The man rushes to Xanth's side with a gasp, whips off his scarf and proceeds to fashion a sort of sling out of it, into which he quickly binds Xanth's arm. Xanth makes a decision that the man's on the opposite side of those who locked him in this stupid room, as evidenced by his look of shock and horror at his injuries. Solie is not so trusting, though, and stays hidden.

"Can you walk?" asks the man, a look of genuine caring in his eyes. That's nice. He's scared, though. Oh well, so is Xanth. The boy considers for a few seconds and responds carefully. "Leaning toward…nnnno."

"Alright," says the man, and scoops him up, careful of his various bruises.

Xanth decides he rather likes this man. He holds people well. Better than the idiots who last carried him. That'd be when he was kidnapped.

John hefts the little, curly-haired boy higher in his arms. He's some sort of prince, or special 'chosen one,' but that doesn't matter now. What matters is what he'd like to do to the people who locked a kid who looks about seven in a tiny, closet-sized room with no food or water, after apparently beating him and breaking an arm to boot. He didn't know what he was expecting when the Doctor promised adventure and strange worlds, but he was pretty sure this isn't it.

He says as much to River, who was around a corner keeping lookout while he rescued the little boy. She laughs quietly. "He doesn't go looking for trouble, usually, trouble follows him from star to star like a puppy."

John makes a noncommittal noise. "Anyway, we need to get – what's your name?"

"Xanth," replies the boy solemnly.

"Right, we need to get Xanth to safety. Do you know if there are any sort of, I don't know, escape pods somewhere on the ship?"

"Yes, they're there, but the Overlord's soldiers will be heavily guarding the airspace around the planet and they'll fire on any craft. Right now, the safest place for him to be is with us."

John nods. "What's the plan now?"

Suddenly a large _BOOM_ resonates through the ship. John and River look at each other. "Doctor!" they shout unanimously, and race towards the source of the explosion.

Xanth's blond curls bounce as they move quickly through the corridors. He looks as if he's concentrating intensely, his brow is furrowed and he is mouthing silently to himself. John's rather proud of the boy for not going into shock. He's not sure if it's an alien thing, or what.

The Doctor is deep in conversation with a 10-foot, black-armored alien that looks a little bit like Sauron when John and River charge into the ship's control room. "I know neither of us want war. There has to be a peaceful solution, you don't have to do this!"

"The only peaceful solution is to exterminate the sunspirit child before he poses a threat to my rule. Then I can continue to govern over the people of this planet as it was before," says the Overlord in a gravelly, neutral voice.

"Oh, I do wish you would stop using that e word," mumbles the Doctor.

"This is none of your concern, Doctor, or whatever you call yourself! You know nothing of the story of this planet!"

"I know that you've been oppressing the people and cutting off their ability to interface with sunspirits, and you've captured the first child in a millennia who can! You are a tyrant of the first order!"

"And what are you doing about it? What can you do? It's been fun watching you flounder haplessly about, but I've gotten rather bored with the whole business. Kill the boy!" The last sentence was directed into a wall-mounted communicator, increasing the gravelliness by at least four times.

"No! You can't!" the Doctor cries stereotypically, but the Overlord is rather preoccupied with shouting at his minion over the communicator. "What do you mean he's escaped?!" John blinks – is that genuine fear in the alien's voice? "Where's the boy?! Where is he?!"

"Actually," interjects Xanth calmly from John's arms.

John's head whips around to stare at the little boy. That serene expression has taken on a distinct undertone of steel. Xanth hops to the floor, stumbling slightly, before straightening up, staring at the transfixed Overlord and calling quietly, "Solie."

Light blooms forth from some unknown source in the general region of the child, surging forward and absorbing into the Overlord before producing a spectacular explosion as the dark being is consumed in a blast of pure sunlight.

After that, it's a blur of "RUN! The ship's going to blow!" and TARDIS noises and happy celebrations and grinning Xanth surrounded by an aura of Solie. It's hours before John blinks the spots out of his eyes, and hours more before their motley team departs the planet of the sun-people. Everyone wants to meet and thank them, Xanth is named king, children are introduced to some of the sun-spirits their grandparents had told them stories about. Finally the Doctor, River, and John escape to the box and go soaring off into endless galaxies, headed for everywhere and nowhere.

**************

It's three in the morning (Earth time, which is habitually used in the TARDIS) when River takes a late-night stroll through the ship and encounters John Watson in the library, reading by a single soft lamp and wrapped in a blanket and Sherlock's scarf. He's rubbing the scarf idly in his fingers as he flips the pages, a look of contemplation on his face.

"Couldn't sleep either?" River asks quietly, coming up behind him.

"Oh, hi. No," John replies, closing his book gently. _The Five Stages of Grief._

"How are you doing lately? You seem a lot happier since you've started traveling with us. I know it can be quite hard, losing someone so close to you like that."

"Yeah, I'm actually doing much better, thanks. I mean, I still miss him, but…I guess I've got something else I have to think of." John smiles tiredly, and River notices – not for the first time – the dark circles under his eyes and worn wrinkles on his face. But at least he's _smiling._ "I think I'm going to head back to bed. You probably should too. Never know what tomorrow brings…"

River smiles back and wanders off, but she has no intention of returning to her and the Doctor's (occasionally) shared bedroom. Instead she resumes her nighttime tour of the TARDIS, ending up in the console room, where the one she quickly realizes she's been searching for appears to be sonicking a banana and speaking with Jack Harkness over the communication screen simultaneously.

"He's tracking Moran now? That's the last one, right? Brilliant! Well, you know I don't approve of the methods he chooses, but – oh dear…" The banana has burst into flames and singed off the Doctor's eyebrows for the hundredth time.

"Yes, and Torchwood is keeping a close eye on him, making sure he's doing all right, that sort of thing. Mycroft Holmes is an invaluable resource in these sorts of situations…kind of cute, too…"

"Oh, _shut up_ , Jack, he'll end up dating Inspector Lestrade and you know that. How _is_ Sherlock, anyway?"

"Ah, Mycroft said he's not exactly at optimum mental health, if you know what I mean. He's gone completely cold. It's like he's forsworn emotions until he can return home."

"Knowing Sherlock, that's not unreasonable to expect. Anything else you wanted me to know?" The Doctor is making ineffective flapping motions with his hands at the still-smoking banana. "Thanks for taking care of him for me."

"No problem at all. It means I get to stare at cheekbones all day." Jack smirks. "You should probably get River to help you with that banana."

"Right. Hi River," says the Doctor feebly. "Um…"

River authoritatively scoops up the offending fruit and dumps it in the trash as Jack's face winks out of sight. "Sweetie, when are you going to tell him? He still has nightmares, you wouldn't know because you never sleep, but I hear him crying out for Sherlock every night. He's at least happier with us, but this solution can't last forever."

The Doctor sighs. "I know, River, but we can't let him know just yet, not without risking major timeline displacement for the both of them. When Sherlock is done, when he's dismantled the Web, then we'll tell him."

It's been three days. The TARDIS hasn't landed anywhere, instead meandering aimlessly through the endless universe, floating where it will. A restful, idyllic peace has settled in the warm afternoon air. River is either swimming or cooking, John is taking a nap, and the Doctor is improving his knitting skills in front of the console when the sound of the ringing phone shatters the tranquil atmosphere,

Characteristically of the TARDIS, the phone call cuts straight to video as soon as the Doctor picks it up. It's Jack, brown hair sticking up wildly around his head. He's slightly out of breath and trying to marshal his features into a calm expression.

"Jack!" says the Doctor, half looking up from his knitting project. "How are you? How's – you know?"

"Doctor – "

The Doctor's head snaps up at the sound of poorly masked panic in the man's voice. He absorbs Jack's stricken face, shaking hands and messy appearance in a fraction of a second. "Something's happened with Sherlock."

Jack nods, "Doctor – he jumped. Again."

"What?!" the Doctor shouts – he hopes he hasn't woken John, that would worsen the situation exceptionally – _"Why?!"_

Jack speaks quickly, the syllables pouring out of him in a rush. "Someone – a spy in Mycroft's network, we don't know who – informed Moran of John's suicide attempt but failed to mention that you picked him up. From what we can tell, Sherlock stabbed Moran in a fit of rage but decided he'd rather be with John than alive and jumped off the roof they were fighting on."

The Doctor hears a soft rustling behind him, but there are more important things to be dealt with at the moment. "Jack – this will sound odd, but you're a time traveler so it should make some sense – _do you know if he landed?"_

Jack looks puzzled. "No, I was just told that he jumped, I sort of assumed – " His face slowly brightens as the puzzlement is replaced by dawning comprehension. "Doctor – _I don't know if he landed!_ Should I – "

"NO! No, no, absolutely _not_ , do not go ask if we've rescued him! It's _imperative_ we preserve the ambiguity of the event, we can't let it become a fixed point – RIVER!" The Doctor whirls around in search of his wife and his eyes land on the source of the rustling.

John is standing at the top of the stairs, his face pale and eyes wide with shock and confusion. "Wh – what?" he asks faintly. "S-Sherlock…?"

"Ah," says the Time Lord, deflating rather. "You'll have heard all that, then?"

John nods shakily. "Is it…was he…"

"John. You weren't supposed to find out this way, but yes, Sherlock's alive, and he _needs our help."_ The last phrase is said rather loudly over his shoulder as he turns to the console. River appears beside him, expertly pulling levers and twisting dials. She leans calmly over the Doctor and taps a large button. "Sweetie, we'll get there faster if you turn on the flight primer first…"

"Right. John, I'm _sorry,_ I'm so so sorry, I can and will explain later, but right now – "

"I know," says John, an improbable, jubilant grin spreading across his face. He races to the TARDIS doors and grasps the handles in a firm hold, ready to fling them open at any moment.. This time, he _will_ catch Sherlock. He _will._


	6. Impermanent Destination

"Doctor?" John shouts over the deafening _vwwooooorrp_ and minor explosions of the TARDIS.

"Not yet!" the Doctor yells back, racing frantically around the console. "Wait 'til she's steadied out!"

John nods, takes a deep breath and tightens his hold on the door handles. He knows that they're time traveling, so it doesn't really matter how fast they're moving, but he can't suppress the panic at the thought of _not being there in time again_. His stomach is jolting with anxiety. Sherlock's alive, and he needs rescued, but he can't know when to open the door, and what if it's too late? People fall pretty fast, which John knows from experience, what if – _you're time traveling,_ John tells himself sternly. _The Doctor and River know what they're doing._

And then there's the small fact that he's in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Who can't feel affection –

_– has one friend, John?_

Who is married to his work –

_– prepared to lose Moriarty's game for you?_

Who thinks sentiment is a chemical defect –

_– jumped off a building for you? Twice?_

John gasps involuntarily as the pieces begin to slowly, slowly fit together. It seems too good to be true. _Could Sherlock really – could he –_

"JOHN! NOW!"

John wrenches the doors open and is hit by a blast of cold air. Fighting the wind, he reaches out to Sherlock's falling body. He grabs a fistful of that black Belstaff and yanks with all his might.

Sherlock lands heavily on the TARDIS floor and lets out a whimper of pain. John is by his side in a second, immediately cataloguing his injuries. His face is a mess, covered in blood and dirt and sweat, and his right hand is mangled and limp. From the sound he made when he landed, he's probably got some broken ribs as well. "Sherlock, it's me, Sherlock, can you hear me?" He cups the detective's face gently, fighting back tears.

"…John?" asks Sherlock weakly, hope and joy kindling in his eyes. He reaches out a trembling hand to John's face, as if to make sure he's really there and not a hallucination brought about by the pain.

John has to hold himself back from tackling Sherlock right then and there, broken ribs and all, but he restrains himself to clasping Sherlock's hand to his face. Sherlock starts to cry softly, and John can't stop himself from clenching Sherlock's whole arm to his chest before collapsing into tears.

The Doctor kneels down beside them, holding something glowing in both hands. He allows a small stream of the golden specks to flow into the air, where they swarm around Sherlock and surround his wounds in a glittering aura. "Nanogenes," he explains. "They'll heal you up in a minute. Just have to make sure to give them the right template first. Long story, that. Sherlock Holmes, I presume?...Oh…" The Doctor retreats awkwardly as John throws himself onto Sherlock and wraps his arms around him in a suffocating hug.

Sherlock freezes for a second, because _John is here and NOT DEAD and John John John JOHN_ before embracing his doctor tightly. His fingers dig into John's back until it's hurting him and probably John as well, but it doesn't matter because this means John is real and alive and Sherlock's holding him and he's holding Sherlock. John's head is burrowed into Sherlock's neck, still covered in the blood from his now-healed wounds, and Sherlock somehow can't stop crying as he pulls John closer into him, desperate to hold him as near as physically possible so he can never ever ever leave him again.

"I missed you, John," he murmurs into the top of John's head, damp with tears. "I missed you _so much."_

John's arms are encircling Sherlock, his fingers ever so gently caressing the back of his neck. Somehow he's ended up completely straddling the man and they're closer than they've ever been. He lifts his head, accidentally brushing his damp face along Sherlock's cheek, and stares into the detective's wide, tearful, broken, _beautiful_ eyes.

And then suddenly they're kissing, John's mouth to Sherlock and Sherlock's to John, and John isn't clear whether he started it or Sherlock started it, but it doesn't matter because neither of them are wanting to finish it anytime soon. John's hands are tangling in that perfectly curly inky-black hair as fireworks explode in his mind. Sherlock tastes like salt and blood and something so indescribably _Sherlock_ he can't even begin to put it into words, but it's so achingly familiar – _oh_. It's that elusive scent that had long ago fled from his precious blue scarf, only as a taste on the lips of the scarf's original owner.

One of Sherlock's hands is wound tightly around John's waist, fingers curling into the material of his jacket. The other is holding the back of his head, tangled fiercely in his hair and pressing their mouths together. John gasps as Sherlock's hand presses harder, _forcing_ him to deepen the kiss. His head is a whirlwind of emotion, but a _good_ whirlwind, not like the depression that had plagued him for the past three years. Happiness and disbelief and hope and confusion and excitement and joy and love – _love_ , yes, most definitely _love_. He feels compelled to inform Sherlock of this…but that would require pulling away…

Which he's not quite ready to do just yet. He attempts to convey to Sherlock the magnitude of his adoration by intensifying the kiss until it's completely all-consuming, any thoughts or consciousness obliterated by the sheer love for this amazing man, and they stay like that for at least an eternity, or is it seconds, it doesn't matter, nothing matters and what is time anyway?

At some point John is faced with the sad revelation that there is only so much magnificent kissing one can do without running a risk of asphyxiation, and that he and Sherlock are quickly reaching that stage. He releases Sherlock's mouth and smiles into the genius's eyes.

There aren't any words that can properly follow such an experience. His lips and hands are stained with Sherlock's congealed blood. His clothes are rumpled, his hair is a mess, and his cheeks are flushed and glowing as he silently rolls to his feet and holds out a hand for Sherlock to take. Sherlock pulls himself up, sways, and promptly collapses back onto the floor.

"Sherlock! What's –" John sits back on his heels as realization hits. "How long has it been since you've eaten anything? Or slept?"

Sherlock mumbles something indistinctly, eyelids fluttering, followed by a "J'n."

"Oh, _Sher_."

John slips one arm under Sherlock's knees and another around his shoulders, lifting him into his arms – _far too easily_ , he thinks. "He's just exhausted," he informs a worried-looking Doctor and River, who had been attempting to ignore the snogging-fest behind them with moderate success before rushing over when Sherlock fell. "Needs sleep and food, in that order."

"Right," says the Doctor. "Should be another spare bedroom around the corner from yours, unless that's the third garden…" He mutters awkwardly to himself before whirling around to begin setting seemingly random coordinates.

John nods and trots up the steps. Sherlock has lost a surprising amount of weight and is now worryingly light for his six-foot frame. His face is snuggled comfortably into John's jumper, and he raises a hand to finger the tassels of his old scarf.

"You kept this," he murmurs, seeming genuinely puzzled. "Why?"

"Sentiment," John grins.

"Oh."

Sherlock dozes as John meanders to his room and peeks into the door around the corner. He blinks.

"Well," he muses, unsure whether Sherlock is listening or not, "it's a bedroom."

"However," he adds, half to himself, "it's got bunk beds."

He contemplates the situation for a moment before making an executive decision and returning to his own room, sliding Sherlock onto the bed and pulling the covers up to his chin. He strokes Sherlock's face briefly before turning to go and feels an unexpectedly strong hand wrap around his wrist.

"Don't leave me," implores Sherlock. His eyes are wide and frightened. "Please never again."

John stares at Sherlock, dirty and bloody and emaciated and exhausted and terrified, and feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes. "Of course not." He slips off his shoes and crawls under the duvet, nestling in close to the detective's body. "Of course I'll never leave you."

"Thank you."

The lights flick off automatically – a nice feature of the TARDIS. If John didn't know better, he'd say the machine was almost sentient. Or…does he know better? John pushes the thought out of his mind. Sometimes you just have to accept it and move on. And anyway, he has something much more important to take care of at the moment.

He had intended to tell Sherlock after they were done kissing, but due to the unforeseen event of his collapse he hadn't had the chance. Now that things have settled down somewhat, it is imperative that his detective knows this as soon as possible.

"Sherlock," John whispers, his breath a gentle breeze across the other man's face. He opens his eyes sleepily. "John."

"I love you."

Sherlock blinks several times in quick succession.

"You – "

"Yes…"

An expression of pure, almost childlike wonder sweeps across Sherlock's face. "You – _love_ me?"

"Yes," John replies, tucking an errant curl behind the detective's ear. "Yes, I do. I do love you, Sherlock Holmes, with all my heart."

"I've never – I – I love you too, John!" Sherlock abruptly crushes John into his arms. "I didn't – I love you. I love you and you love me." He beams contentedly. "And we're in the same bed and warm and safe, with no criminals after us and we're alive and we're together."

"We're together," echoes John, staring into Sherlock's eyes. "We're finally together."

"…I like this."

"Me too."

And enveloped in each other's arms, they quickly drift off into a blissful slumber.


	7. The Beginning

_The cab slows to a stop in front of St. Bart's Hospital, and John steps out anxiously. Something's wrong – Mrs. Hudson wasn't in danger at all, and Sherlock has been acting strange lately. Then there's the unshakable, inexplicable knot of dread and slight déjà vu sitting heavily in his stomach._

" – turn around and walk back the way you came now – "

_John brings the phone to his ear. "Hello?...Hey Sherlock, you okay?" He's never heard this kind of fear in Sherlock's voice before, not even at Baskerville._

" – stop there – "

_Slowly, not wanting to believe it, John lifts his gaze to the roof of the hospital. His heart jolts as he sees Sherlock perched on the very edge, like some sort of half-raven hybrid. (Because humans aren't meant to be up there.) "Oh God."_

" – no, John, stop, what are you doing – "

_No he didn't. He wouldn't do something like that, no matter how bored he got. John's mind flashes to the pool, his own abduction and powerlessness and terror. He couldn't. Why is he saying this? "Why are you saying this?"_

_Sherlock's voice breaks. "I'm a fake."_

" – John, stop walking – please John, stop walking – please no – "

_Semiconsciously, John raises a hand towards his friend. He knows it's pointless. Every thought in his mind is crying and praying against what he knows Sherlock's about to do. "Do what?"_

_"This phone call…it's, er, my – "_

"NO!"

Sherlock's raw scream wrenches John out of his own nightmare. _"You didn't have to shoot him! I was going to jump!"_ the detective howls as John snaps into rationality and begins to shake him firmly. "You didn't have to shoot him I was going to juuuummmmmppp…" Sherlock gives a great shuddering gasp before collapsing onto John's shoulder and bursting into hysterical tears.

John soothingly runs his fingers through the genius's hair. He presses gentle kisses Sherlock's face – his forehead, his nose, his cheekbones, his jawline, his temple. "Shh, love. It's okay, love. I've got you. You're alright. Shhhh. You're here with me. Shhh."

_"John,",_ Sherlock gulps, still panting as if he's just run a marathon. "That's how you felt, isn't it, I know how you felt, when I jumped, I'm so sorry John I love you …"

"Shh, it's okay. I love you too." John rubs his hands up and down Sherlock's back, shaking off his own old nightmare. Sherlock's chest heaves as he attempts to control his breathing, and John feels the detective's hammering heartbeat gradually decrease until it's synchronized with his own – not calm, still quite elevated, but not nearly so manic.

"I woke you up, didn't I," Sherlock mumbles abashedly. "I'm sorry."

"No, no, don't be sorry. Thank you."

" – Oh. You were – "

"Mmhmm."

Sherlock pulls himself up so he's lying directly across from John on the pillow, their noses nearly touching. It's simple to deduce his nightmare, just from staring into his eyes. He can see the remnants of fear and pain (but no, not physical, emotional), all but chased away and replaced with awe, joy, love and this-is-just-too-good-to-be-true disbelief. Sherlock recognizes these emotions as the same ones he's experiencing, so he addresses them in the way that he would want John to, had their positions been changed.

"It's real," he whispers, wrapping an arm around his doctor's waist and pulling him close. "I know. I can't believe it either. But it's real."

They lie like that for a while (Sherlock can't see a clock, and his mental one has quite stopped working), absorbing the quiet and serenity and realness of their own personal miracle, before John lifts his head with a slightly teasing smile playing about his lips. "I don't know how you've managed this, but you haven't asked a single question about where we are or how this is possible since yesterday. Your mind must be exploding."

Sherlock opens his mouth, but is interrupted by an alarmingly large growl issuing from his stomach. Once it dies down, he asks simply, "Can we get food?"

"Oh! God, Sherlock, I'm so sorry! You must be starving, why didn't you say so before?"

"Happy," he mumbles under his breath. "Didn't want you to leave."

"It's alright." John strokes Sherlock's cheekbone with his thumb and gently slides out of bed. "I'll be right back, I promise. If you need anything, I'm within yelling distance."

Sherlock rolls onto John's side of the bed, warm and smelling of him. He nestles his face into the pillow and inhales.

_Where's John?_

_Getting food, he said._

_But where? What if something happens?_

_He knows his way around, he is confident here._

_Wherever here is._

He squirms as seeds of doubt begin to germinate in his mind.

_Where is here?_

_The box –_

_This is impossible._

_Can't be real._

_Extended pre-death hallucination?_

_No – no please –_

_John?_

_JOHN?_

He curls into an agonizingly tight ball under the covers, squeezing his knees so hard it hurts because _this isn't right it can't be right something not good it can't work so it doesn't work because it can't be real it's not real because the box and small and big and where am I it doesn't work John is here and he loves me so it's not real because I'm going to wake up and then hit the pavement because I'm dreaming please don't let me wake up –_

Warm hand on his trembling head. Warm body on the bed beside him. Soft caring voice. "Sherlock? Hey Sherlock, I've got food…"

_Oh. It's real. Of course it's real. John loves me. It's real real real real. Food._

Sherlock emerges from the blankets and blinks vaguely at John. He scoots back over to his own side. John places a tray on his legs before crawling into bed and settling himself against Sherlock. "You all right?" he asks quietly.

Sherlock doesn't reply.

"Okay." John begins spreading copious amounts of jam on the stack of toast. "I'm here if you want to talk."

The detective nods and presses his face into John's side.

After finishing, John leans back and puts his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "Here's toast. You might be at the risk of refeeding syndrome, so I don't want you having anything more substantial."

Sherlock grabs the toast eagerly and begins eating with more enthusiasm than John's ever seen him treat food. "Understandable," he mumbles through a large mouthful, looking a bit like a lanky chipmunk.

He finishes four pieces in record time – possibly the fastest and most he's ever seen him eat at once, John thinks. The speed and dedication of his impromptu feast has left his mouth spattered messily with crumbs and smudges of jam, which for some reason John finds intensely endearing. Sherlock reaches up to wipe a large smear of jam just above his mouth.

"Let me help you," says John, leaning forward and pulling Sherlock's top lip between his teeth, tongue gliding over the sweet stickiness. Sherlock freezes in shock but quickly relaxes, smiling slightly and returning the kiss. This isn't like the fierce, desperate kiss of last night, fueled by fear and adrenaline and fresh, disbelieving joy. This one is loving and luxurious. The joy is still present, a euphoric current swirling in unison through their hearts, but it will always be there.

Scientists, probing outward and onward, struggling to understand every facet of our existence, may find many incredible occurrences scattered through the cosmos. They may find planets of diamond, wormholes to other dimensions, galaxies bearing a peculiar resemblance to the structure of the human eye. But they will never find anything like this wonderful phenomenon of unifying joy.

This joy is one of the most beautiful things in the universe. It's the joy of two men who have waited their whole lives without someone to complete them, only to finally meet and have that someone snatched away after a preciously short time together. This is the joy of heartbreaking loss, of pain and loneliness and the dread of never seeing that person again. The joy of planned and failed reunions, of lost hope and crushing depression. The joy of finally, _finally_ meeting again and knowing, just beautifully simultaneously _realizing,_ that they will never be as happy with anyone else as they are with the person by their side, and the joy of unspoken agreement never to part again.

This is the joy that comes only through pain and hardship, the joy that after trials and tribulations will still be flowing through their veins in the knowledge that _we have and love each other._ The joy will sustain them through their remaining years and far beyond that, for eternity or until the ends of the universe, whichever happens last.

When they finally pull away, John answers the question he can tell Sherlock's dying to ask. "It's called the TARDIS. Stands for Time and Relative Dimensions in Space. It's an alien spaceship that's bigger on the inside – dimensionally transcendental, whatever that means. Piloted by an alien as well. He calls himself the Doctor." He smiles at Sherlock's bewildered face.

"It can travel anywhere in time and space, so…where do you want to start? Find out how Stonehenge was created? See what happened to Roanoke? Maybe discover the solar system?"

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "…Home. Can we just go home?"

"Of course. I was hoping you'd say that." John pulls Sherlock into a tight hug. "Let's go home."


End file.
